{an odd feeling rises in her when he messages. there is something between them, like bitter gourd soaked in honey. The hitch is, only in it's purest form can the gourd be relished. Ergo, she tortured him, with her brunt brass eyes, then her impudent passion, then the lack of it and then with her frozen soul. he had been full of love, love that would make butterflies feel safer, she was an echo less abyss.}
~ she does not want to hold him,
^ he does not want to be held.
^ he had called her a home-breaker, a mistress, a raw green chilly.
~ she had asked him to bugger off and go lick some sugar coated frostie.
~ she had missed his verse,
^ he had missed her, in every act.
^ he had called,
~ she had thwarted.
^ still love you, in spite of you
~ still do too, in my own way
^ maybe we shall cross our paths sometimes. I will see you then.
~ See you when our paths he cross. Not before, not after.
^ Guess somethings will never change. I do not miss you.
~ I know.
^ I know.
{he returned, repeatedly, sans ego. his liquid love could never fill her mind. her body was a thousand pores, every drop of love would be absorbed and then drained away. he had a lot of love to give, and he had wasted it all on her. his passion for her made him dark droll man, and she wasn't an inch wiser.}
- - the conversation was left there - well rounded. they thought of the past, the cursed present, and an hopeful future.
the maybes' in our life can hold us ransom, either by our throats or by a fragile sun beam.
